


Very Sexy Things to do After Sex

by eggstasy



Series: cosmoverse [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Orgasm Delay, Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 12, i am ashamed, more plot than porn actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:25:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6082767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington realizes suddenly with a touch of horror that the reason why his fingers twitch anytime Tucker takes off his helmet is because he wants to grab Tucker's hair and shove that gorgeous face right between his legs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How to Touch a Naked Man

Washington realizes suddenly with a touch of horror that the reason why his fingers twitch anytime Tucker takes off his helmet is because he wants to grab Tucker's hair and shove that gorgeous face right between his legs.

It hits him at the worst time, in the middle of training, when his hackles are already up because Tucker has a way of working the other soldiers up into a frenzy of disobedience. Putting Grif, Simmons, Caboose and Tucker onto the same task and expecting them to get anything done without a ridiculous amount of backtalk is laughable, but they're just running laps for crying out loud. What the hell could they possibly talk about while running laps? Seeing their captains wound up gets the lieutenants going, and then the lesser officers work up their courage and it's just a mess, a godforsaken mess.

So it seriously, seriously makes no sense that Washington is pinpointing this itching feeling as _attraction,_ and of a sexual nature too. Really? _Are you sure,_ he wants to ask the sadly repressed portion of his brain that admittedly did not get enough attention in his adolescence and young adulthood. _Are you sure this is what you want?_

He'd thought at first it was because he wanted to punch Tucker, which wasn't a strange sensation to have. Tucker is annoying. He's loud and doesn't know when to quit and is possibly the most immature of all the simulation soldiers. Then he'd thought it was because he was just so used to keeping his armor on all the time, and seeing Tucker just whip his helmet off whenever he pleased set off alarms in Wash's head. Between the constant danger of missions, explosive teammates and the vast vacuum of space, Washington took his helmet off even less often than the other Freelancers had. He didn't know how York and North could wander the halls in civilian clothes. Washington felt naked without temperature-controlled kevlar and if that worried him at first, it doesn't anymore. He got shot at with alarming regularity those days, and it has only gone downhill since.

It isn't either of those reasons.

One particular day of training with the Captains and their squads made that abundantly clear. At some point after their required ten warm up laps Tucker reached up, popped the seals on his helmet, took it off and shook his hair out, long dreads only barely cinched by the thick hair band at the back of his skull. His hairstyle is flaunting regulation, but Washington doesn't think that hair length is a major concern anymore and _especially_ wasn't back in Blood Gulch. He doubts Florida ever really cared to keep that sort of thing in check anyway, given the man's own ridiculous hairstyles.

Tucker only took off his helmet during training when he was sweating too, the bastard. His skin is shiny and Washington can see his pink tongue flick out and swipe over his upper lip and Wash only has barely enough time to think _I didn't even say they could take a break_ before he's hit with that, the shock of tingling heat that honestly he hasn't even thought about for...shit. Years? It really has been years. Fucking hell. Tucker's smile is so beautiful. His lips look so soft and plush, kissing him is probably like kissing a sarcastic feather pillow. His teeth are so white he must brush three times a day. Disgusting thoughts seep from Washington's hormone-soaked lizard brain and he has to stop this now, immediately, before it gets any worse.

“Captain Tucker!” he shouts to cover up how badly he want to peel the rest of the armor off of his teammate like an X-rated Christmas present. “We are still training! You will _not_ remove your armor until I say so, am I understood?”

The look he gets is nearly mutinous and Washington, god damn him, finds the slant of Tucker's bisected eyebrow insanely pretty. _That's right, you handsome son of a bitch. Glare at me. Put those eyes right on me and turn that beautiful mouth down._ He has a problem. His adolescence is making a furious, drunken comeback.

Wash isn't fond of the practice of having the captains train with their squads under _his_ command for reasons like the above. Kimball had proposed it, citing that it was great for morale because a) it was hilarious to the men to see their captains screw up and then yell at each other for fifteen minutes while Washington tried valiantly to threaten them back into obedience, and b) it is apparently both astounding and delightful to watch Caboose cheerfully do fifty pull-ups with three cadets in full body armor dangling off of him. The problem with this is that Washington has to assert his dominance over people already trying to assert their dominance over _other_ people who may or may not respect them, given who said people are, so there tends to be a conflict of interests when Washington says 'give me fifty' and Grif, for example, does not feel like giving Wash much of anything.

Because the young, impressionable soldiers of Chorus are watching, Wash knows that Tucker will listen to him. Somehow, somewhere along the line, they had come to the agreement that Tucker wouldn't undermine his authority in front of the recruits. In exchange, Tucker would humiliate and destroy Washington within their circle of friends however he deemed necessary to make up for whatever Wash did to piss him off.

Okay so it isn't an agreement. It's a delicate power struggle that's been going on ever since they joined back up with the armies of Chorus. Tucker has his own squad (that had grown beyond just Palomo since his release from the hospital) and Washington's in charge of training the officers, so there's some conflict there. More mature soldiers and cooler heads could work it out with little incident.

Tucker is neither mature nor cool-headed and Washington wouldn't admit it but occasionally he has trouble with that as well. Especially where Tucker is concerned.

So when Tucker scoops his dreads back into his helmet and seals it, Washington knows he's in for retaliation of epic proportions. He'd have to guard against it for weeks. Tucker is a grudge-nursing motherfucker when he wants to be, who could take a month to get a guy back for extra laps given when he last mouthed off. Tucker is a menace. Tucker is a disaster.

Tucker coaxing his hair back into his helmet is the focus of Washington's sexual fantasies four nights out of the following week and he has never been more ashamed of himself.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks and nothing. Three weeks of looking over his shoulder, checking his bed, checking his food. If the Reds know anything they won't say no matter how much Washington tries ordering or manipulating or outright bribing them for information. In his desperation he'd even asked _Caboose_ if he knew anything, which Caboose had taken as an invitation to badmouth Tucker for almost fifteen minutes as they'd been fighting since the night prior, when Tucker had traded Caboose's cookie stash to Grif for a girly mag.

It's hell.

Washington can't remember being so hyper-vigilant for so long. Not during the Project, not in the hospital, not- well, maybe as Recovery One. But that was a different kind of vigilance that he doesn't want to compare to awaiting comeuppance for him ordering Tucker around like, frankly, a little bitch in front of his men.

Oh god, does he ever have a problem. He has a thing for ordering Tucker around like a little bitch. He has a _kink_ and he's a sick, sick bastard who has enough psychological issues to occupy the next ten years of Emily Grey's professional career even without factoring in his new disturbing sexual proclivities.

The only good thing this paranoia has done for him is help quell that lizard part of his brain. He can at least function like a normal adult in his thirties, who already has a slew of emotional problems that doesn't need to include lusting after his subordinates. Now, when he stares at Tucker exiting the shower he only considers how good his calves look for a few seconds before wondering just when, _when_ retaliation will arrive.

“Wash.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Washington yells as he spins around, rifle clutched tight. Tucker stands behind him shocked, _his fucking helmet off again_ and hands up in surrender.

“Oh my god, don't shoot! What the shit Wash!”

Washington forces his weapon down. All he needs to do is pretend everything is normal. There's no reason Tucker would announce himself before exacting his revenge. He couldn't possibly be _that_ dumb. “Captain Tucker. What can I do for you?”

“Are you kidding me? Why the hell are you so wound up?” Apparently Tucker isn't going to buy the casual approach.

“I've been having trouble sleeping,” Washington answers honestly, because that's not exactly an unusual thing and it's a problem of his Tucker is familiar with. “It's just got me twitchy. Now, did you need something?”

“Yeah.” Tucker reaches up to smooth his hair back and jerks his chin toward the barracks. “Can I talk to you for a sec? Over here.”

It's a trap. _It's absolutely a trap._ Washington might be sex-starved but he jerked off just yesterday and he's in his thirties, thank you, he's not an idiot baby-faced recruit fresh out of basic, ready to be chewed up and spat out by the adult world. Not to mention he's _disciplined._ He isn't so poor a soldier that he would allow himself to be seduced by an enemy combatant. _Think you've got me, Tucker?_ Ha. It doesn't matter how Tucker comes at him, Washington thinks as he stows his rifle and follows Tucker over to a secluded area of the barracks. There's nothing Tucker can do that will take him by surprise.

Tucker spins suddenly and his hand shoots out in Washington's direction.

Instinct takes over. With a fluid motion Washington sidesteps (Tucker's aim was off, he wouldn't have even made contact with that strike even if Washington hadn't moved, that should be addressed during his next hand-to-hand session). He slaps Tucker's arm down, grabs his wrist and shoulder and twists Tucker's arm behind his back, shoving his chest against the wall.

Tucker squawks in alarm. “Fuck ow Wash, what are you doing?! Ow ow _ow!_ ”

“Captain Tucker,” Washington says smoothly, feeling very proud for defending himself from this admittedly pathetic attack, “that was probably the saddest thing I've ever seen. If this is how you're going to try getting back at me, I'd suggest something other than a back alley brawl.”

“What? A brawl? Jesus Christ Wash, ow! Let me go!” Washington releases Tucker's arm and shoves him away. Tucker catches himself in his stumble and stares at Wash as he rubs his elbow and looks convincingly confused. Hm. His acting is getting good. “Did you think I was trying to _fight_ you?”

... _very_ good. “Uh, yes? Which is why you just tried to grab me?”

Tucker blows out a breath, letting go of his arm. “I wasn't trying to _grab_ you, I was trying-” The way he cuts himself off is strange, like he's embarrassed but Tucker doesn't- Well maybe he's embarrassed that his ploy was so easily foiled, but Tucker generally doesn't put effort into lying once he's already been found out, so it can't be that, it must, “Christ Wash, I was trying to, like, y'know!” Tucker smacks his palm against the wall. “Do that!”

There is something he's missing. Some social cue that normal people must know. “Hit the wall?” Tucker nods and that clears up absolutely nothing. “I don't understand.”

“ _For Christ's sake._ ” Tucker grabs Washington's shoulders and it takes a surprising amount of willpower to stop himself from flipping Tucker onto the ground. Tucker escorts him closer to the wall and presses his back against it. He glances up. Is there a bucket of paint or something up there? “Wash, holy shit, just.” Tucker presses his hand to the wall just above Wash's shoulder and leans in close. “ _Like this._ ”

Washington takes all of this in with the air of a fish out of water. “...you're wide open like this,” he says, confusion and annoyance with his confusion making his voice sharp. He points to Tucker's side. “There, and there. I could put a knife between these plates easily, probably without you even notice-” Tucker's face is awfully close, “...ing. Oh. Oh my god.”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Tucker sighs out in exasperation.

“Oh my god. You're- No. Are you?”

“Words, Wash.”

“You're hitting on me.”

“No I'm checking myself out in your visor.” Tucker pauses before he actually does that, picking between his teeth. “Okay, also that. _But_ definitely hitting on you. You thought I was _attacking_ you?”

“I thought you were trying to get me back for yelling at you during training,” Washington explains faintly as he makes an attempt at sinking into the wall. It doesn't work. Tucker is a few inches shorter than him so he slides down a little and there, that actually feels better.

“Wash you're _always_ yelling at me during training. If I tried to get back at you every time you did that I'd never have any time to jack off.”

Oh god. No, this is probably another prank. Grif and Simmons are going to come around the corner and laugh at him for getting wrung out by Tucker and then they're all going to make fun of him for not having sex for years, because that sort of thing is important to them for some reason. Whatever, Washington isn't worried. He doubts any of them have had sex in years either. Well, maybe Tucker has.

“Wash, you still with me?” Tucker's eyes are honestly far too expressive. It's a crime he isn't plastered all over a billion magazines and billboards, advertising for some softcore porn where all the viewer does is stare at the sweat sliding down his abs for a solid ten min-

Oh no. Teenage Washbrain is coming back online, after weeks of furious browbeating. _No,_ don't say beating. “ _Why_ are you hitting on me, actually?”

“Uh, because I'm not blind? You wanna bang me.”

HERE IT IS. The revenge. This is the revenge, he should've known. It's shockingly perceptive of Tucker, to use this to humiliate him. Perceptive and a lot meaner than he'd expected. “I don't know what you're talking about.” Playing dumb might allow him to salvage some of his pride. He can make it through this. York used to tease him all the time on the ship, though he'd never had a crush on York so it's not exactly the same, _do not_ think about York right now Washington. “Aside from that, any relations between us would be against regulations, so if you could just back up...”

“Are you serious?” Tucker blinks. “Dude, you aren't a higher rank than me. Agent isn't a rank.”

“What? No. We're not going through that again.”

“What d'you mean _again?”_

“Tucker,” Washington says firmly, both grimly determined and absolutely despising himself for putting a hand on Tucker's chest and pushing him back, “I don't know why you thought this would be a good idea, but it's not happening. It- _nothing_ is happening. I don't want to- I don't have that kind of attraction toward you anyway.” Oh god, he's a liar. A lying lying liar, and if he believed in hell he'd know that he'd be holding penthouse suites in at least three different circles just for this moment alone. He wants to grab Tucker's hips instead and hold him there. He wants Tucker to pull _his_ armor off and press him against that wall and make him regret humiliating him in front of his men in the best, most torturous ways- _oh shit_ he has another kink, god, he's beyond saving now.

“Hey Wash?”

“Yes, Captain Tucker?” Distance. _He needs distance._ The title should do it.

“How long do you want that hand to stay there?”

“What?” Fuck. Washington snatches his hand back from Tucker's chestplate. “I don't- I just forgot. I wasn't-”

“You want to bang me _so incredibly hard_.” Tucker's smile isn't smug, isn't filthy like Washington had expected it would be. It's delighted, almost cute with how boyishly happy he is and that's his kink. Tucker's genuine happiness is his kink. Oh shit. He's doomed. Find a hole and bury him in it now, there's no salvaging a proud soldier from the wreck Agent Washington has become. “Dude, look, will you get over your jitters if I just come right out and say I wanna bang you too?”

 _No!_ His self-control is in danger!

“Like, you're a dick during training, don't get me wrong, but when you're not yelling at _me_ I'm totally into that dominance thing, like _so_ into it.” Tucker's eyes dart away and down, _shyly_ like he's opening up to Wash, letting himself be vulnerable, _oh no he's so dead,_ Tucker just bit his lip. “If you wanted to shove me down and tell me to give you twenty, I totally would dude.”

“Humnuhbmn,” Wash says succinctly. When did he press his hands back against the wall? His fight-or-flight response is struggling against an intruder in his instinctual self-preservation system and he doesn't know if he wants to run, punch Tucker or punch him with his mouth over and over and over again.

Tucker laughs.

 _He wins._ Washington's helmet clatters to the ground and he grabs the upper lip of Tucker's armor, yanks him forward until their chestplates bang and finally, _finally_ kisses those sarcastic pillow lips and it's beautiful. Oh god. He'd always thought the fireworks-in-the-sky metaphor was silly hyperbole but apparently the key was to deny yourself attraction for two years and then kiss the other guy after making a moron out of yourself. Mortars explode overhead- Oh, no, those booms are real. They must be doing munitions testing outside the city again. Well, it's still pretty great.

“I totally seduced you,” Tucker crows when they part. “I totally did, look at that, I fucking _rock._ ”

“You did not,” Wash scoffs. “Anything I feel for you is because of me. You didn't have anything to do with it.”

“Bullshit!” Tucker flips his hair and that makes Wash's fingers tighten around where they still grip his armor. “You think these things are easy to take care of? You think it's _easy_ being this hot? I have to work at this, dude.”

“You wouldn't have a body like that if I didn't force you to train every day,” Washington points out.

“So you _have_ been checking me out.” Tucker grins.

It'd be pretty sad to deny it now, so... “Yeah,” Wash admits. “Okay. All right. Look, I- I do feel...some attraction to you,” he forces out, finally letting go of Tucker and leaning back against the wall to get some air. Everything feels so floaty and great and awesome and he needs to hurry up and ground himself back in reality.

Tucker sighs explosively and flaps his arms. “Oh my god, you sound like a documentary.”

“But,” Wash interrupts, “that doesn't mean anything can happen. I wasn't kidding Tucker; any relations between us-”

“Just say fucking, man, seriously...”

“-wouldn't be appropriate.” Wash hates being the only one who understands this. He wouldn't expect Tucker to, of course; the Reds and Blues flaunted what few rules they even had, like they'd care about fraternization regulations. “So we can't.”

The look Tucker gives him is one he doesn't wholly expect. Tucker's approach to sex is casual, to say the least; a good fuck is just another way to pass the time, surely. Even though he doesn't have sex nearly as often as he claims, the way he talks about it is just so cavalier that Wash had expected Tucker to be disappointed, sure, but that there? Looks like desperation. Looks a little like hurt, too, which is the part that really punches him in the gut. “Not even once? What if we keep it quiet?”

Wash blinks. _Not even once?_ Tucker wanted to have sex with him more than once? “Uh. No, not even once.”

“Couldn't we just ask Kimball about it?”

Wash chokes. “Absolutely not. I am _not_ asking Kimball - _or Doyle_ ,” he adds when Tucker opens his mouth, “about whether or not you and I can screw each other.”

“Are you ever gonna say fuck?”

“I say fuck all the time.”

“I mean when talking about us fucking.”

Wash refuses to be embarrassed. “We're not...fucking.”

Tucker closes his eyes and clenches his fist in victory. “Even with that 'not' in there, that's all I hoped it'd be.”

There's that feeling again, that he's missing something that should be obvious. “Why are you so hung up on this? I'm sure there are other people who'd be willing to sleep with you. Somewhere.” Probably. As off-putting as Tucker's personality can be (usually is), he _is_ physically attractive. There must be someone else who would be willing to put up with the rest.

Tucker gives him that look again, the desperate-hurt look and Washington is so weak to it, no, fuck no. He has more strength than this. He can resist Tucker rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. He can resist that muted tone of voice. “Wash. C'mon.”

“I'll...talk to them about the rank issue,” Wash says instead and _who authorized that?_ He absolutely did not give himself permission to say that! What the hell. “ _Not_ about the sex issue. If I get a definite answer on our situation, since it's somewhat unique all things considered, then I'll make an informed decision on whether or not this is something we can appropriately pursue.” Tucker gives him that blinding grin again and Washington wants to slam his stupid helmet back onto his head before he compromises himself further. “But don't get your hopes up! I doubt I'll get an answer you want to hear.”

 

* * *

 

“Agent Washington,” Doyle says, distinctly uncomfortable, “you...you do realize that 'Agent' is not a recognized rank, correct?”

What. “What?” Washington manages, voice strangled.

Doyle holds up his hands apologetically. “It's just that- well, Ms. Kimball and I have attempted to hold discussions regarding issuing you and Agent Carolina official ranks within the now combined National Forces of Chorus, but we've yet to come to a consensus. For now, you're simply consultants operating under our authority. You don't... _actually_ have command over any of the troops outside of the general orders we've issued.”

 _The Reds can never know of this,_ Washington realizes. “...I see.”

“It isn't meant as any disrespect toward you or your associate!” Doyle scrambles to explain. “We have every intention of providing you with your own authority, we simply aren't sure where to place you just yet! And, well, neither of you have said anything about it so we'd simply assumed that you already knew.”

“Does everyone know?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Doyle reassures him. “It has only been discussed between General Kimball and myself. You command a certain amount of respect from the troops regardless of your rank...or lack thereof.”

Any other time, Wash might be insulted. Now, however, “I see. If you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

 

* * *

 

“Wait,” Tucker mumbles, “so, like, what he said was-”

“What he said doesn't matter,” Wash says impatiently. “Shut up. Stop talking.” He yanks Tucker against him a little harder, hands gripping the armor at his waist awkwardly. Every time the rumble of a warthog growls past he freezes up, but there's something distinctly exciting about fooling around with Tucker behind the motorpool.

“So you wanna fuck.” Tucker pulls back and looks at him, eye-contact and everything. “You wanna do it now?”

“I don't have anything scheduled for the next four hours,” Washington breathes and he's twenty again, the years sloughing off of him as his teenage hindbrain clamors for this, for skin on skin, mouths on mouths and necks and chests and dicks. He wants it. He wants it so bad, and Tucker also wanting it so bad is the only reason why he's letting himself have it. _It'll make him happy too._ “It- do you really wanna- with-”

“What- yeah! _Hell_ yeah dude, I wanna fuck you so bad,” Tucker exclaims and Washington shushes him, slapping his hand over his mouth.

“First of all, I didn't agree to that specifically,” Wash says but he knows his tone's curling with the smile he's not letting show, and he knows Tucker can tell because Tucker just waggles his eyebrows at him. “...though I'm not opposed to it. But- I want to do this right, and we're going to be _safe_ about this and- do _not_ roll your eyes at me Tucker. I don't know where you've been.”

Tucker jerks his face away and scoffs. “ _That's_ rude. I'm clean.”

“Really.”

“Yeah really, asshole! I'm actually debating not fucking you now.”

“Okay, okay.” Washington can admit that, even with Tucker's reputation, it's pretty rude to insinuate something like that without proof. “I'm sorry. So, you're clean. I'm clean. I'll tell you right now, my quarters are _not_ set up for anything.”

“What like, rubbers and lube and shit? Hell, Wash.” Tucker laughs. “We'll go to mine. I'm a fuckin' _drugstore.”_

 

* * *

 

And that's how it begins.

Their first time is an exercise in humility. They don't get as far as actual penetration, which shouldn't shock Washington but it did. The situation had seemed so primed for it, but by the time they get into Tucker's quarters and get each other's armor off, they can't wait and rub against each other like a couple of teenagers until they come right there against the door.

“Oh my god,” Washington had gasped in mortification. “Tucker, I just-”

“Dude shut up, me too. It was awesome.” Tucker had dragged Wash over to his bed, tossed him a t-shirt to wipe down with (“Gross, Tucker.”) and had collapsed onto his bed. When Washington didn't join him he'd patted the mattress insistently. “Wash, lay down. We're gonna post-fuck nap.”

“We didn't really actually get that far,” Washington pointed out, but had felt stupid being so upset about it when Tucker clearly didn't care. Tucker slung an arm over his side and pressed right up to him and that was skin-on-skin, which was nice but not as much as what Wash had hoped for. He feels jilted, then feels disgusted for feeling like that as if Tucker is a commodity to be properly used.

“Stop thinking. We'll just make sure we get there next time,” Tucker yawned into Washington's ear.

_Next time._

The glow from that 'next time' carries Washington well into next week.

The following morning Grif sees them leaving Tucker's quarters together, and even though they're both in full armor he knows immediately and shouts, “Son of a _bitch_ ,” and elbows Simmons so hard he doubles over. Tucker gives him the finger and leaves cackling while Wash sputters and desperately tries to provide an explanation, any kind of explanation that isn't the truth. Grif doesn't buy any of it. Red Team revels in gossip of any kind, much as Sarge might try to deny it, and by Saturday Washington has gotten no less than sixteen punchlines lobbed his way and a gift basket of lubes, lotions and scented oils from Donut that he discreetly hides under his bed for future use.

It gets weird when Carolina comes up to him and awkwardly tries to tell him to 'not get distracted.' And then _Epsilon_ pops up and gleefully tells Washington that he's contractually obligated to threaten him with physical pain if he breaks Tucker's heart which is the weirdest, the hands-down weirdest reaction he's gotten. _It's not a relationship,_ he wants to correct them, but thankfully he is not stupid enough to try and argue that point with _these two._ “Please never speak to me about this again,” he says instead before running away.

Between their separate assignments, Tucker and Washington don't see each other for longer than fifteen minutes until nearly two weeks later. Tucker comes by Washington's quarters after he'd already gone to bed; Washington opens the door and Tucker rests against him, almost toppling him over since he's still in power armor and Washington is actually sleeping in normal clothes, for once.

“Hey,” Wash says quietly. He puts an arm around Tucker and draws him into his quarters, locking the door behind them. If there's one thing afforded by their new nebulous relationship where they fuck but still do everything the same, they now have a standing invitation to touch the other guy whenever they want. It's...really nice. Something Washington has desperately missed and, as the days pass, something he's noticed that Tucker really, really responds to. “You all right?”

“Some kid died.” Tucker's almost taller like this, but he keeps his visor against Wash's shoulder, a hand coming up to curl in Wash's sleep shirt. “Popped her head out of cover too early. Some sniper just. Took her out right there.” Tucker turns his helmet into Wash's neck. “I'm the one who told her to check if the coast was clear.”

“Oh Tucker,” Wash breathes. He feels around the seams of Tucker's helmet and pops the seals. He doesn't know if he expected to see tears, but he's surprised to find Tucker's eyes dry when he sets the helmet aside. _They've gone through just as much as I have_ , Wash remembers, because people always underestimate the sim troopers and it leads them to forget that even in fake wars, the ammunition and pain and loss tend to be just as real as it is anywhere else.

Tucker's eyes are settled somewhere around Wash's chin, head down, so Wash tilts his head down and kisses the corner of his mouth. “It's not your fault.”

“You're just saying that,” Tucker mutters.

“Maybe,” Wash admits, and if nothing else that gets Tucker to finally look up at him, “but your other choice is to blame yourself for something you couldn't have anticipated, can't change, and let that weight drag around with you for the rest of your life. If you decide to hang onto the guilt, know that it'll make you a less efficient soldier, and in turn make you a liability to your men and comrades in the future.”

Tucker's brow furrows. “So I should just forget about her?”

“I'm not saying that. Just do whatever you need to do to make sure you can keep moving forward.” Wash runs a hand over Tucker's dreads, cupping them against the back of his neck and pressing their foreheads together. “It's all you can do.”

The answering silence means Tucker's thinking about it, _really_ thinking and Wash closes his eyes to give him space when he feels textured gloves and gauntlets slipping beneath his shirt to trace over the lines of his back. “I don't wanna think about it,” Tucker murmurs when Wash picks up his head, and kisses him.

Wash can get that. God damn, could Wash ever get that.

Tucker gets backed up against the wall as he and Wash both work together to pluck off the pieces of his armor, seals hissing and popping before the plates fall to the floor. Wash nudges them aside with his feet, runs his fingers up Tucker's spine to find the survival suit release, watches the kevlar loosen as it unknits down the back. The quiet between them is tenuous, raw like a scrape, heavy as a bruise. Washington doesn't want to break it because he doesn't know what to say so he just goes right for what he knows will work, pulls open the sagging neckline and ducks his head to seal his mouth over a nipple.

“Ohhhh shit,” Tucker groans. His head bangs back against the door and rattles it. “Yeah, get- _ah ah_ okay ow gentle, they've been taking abuse like all day dude.”

They have a dangerous moment where Wash almost trips over the armor pieces and Tucker is struggling out of the legs of his survival suit on their way to the bed. They make it to the standard-issue cot without too much disaster and Wash has to stop Tucker when he spits in his hand. “No. Oh my god. You've never had sex with a guy have you?”

“What? Uhhh no, but I read up. Spit's okay to start, right?”

“Nnnnooo,” Wash sighs as he rolls over and rummages around beneath his bed to draw out the gift basket. “What did you read? Was it porn?”

Tucker scoffs. “You don't _read_ porn, Wash.”

Jesus Christ.  “Get on your back.”

Tucker hands are so warm and strong when they press up Wash's thighs when he finally settles onto Tucker's dick. “Oh shit Wash, that's really tight- are you okay? Fuck me man, you're okay right? God please don't want to get off. I mean get off of me, not in general, it's totally fine in-”

“Relax,” Wash says tightly, though he should probably take his own advice. Tucker's bigger than he thought he'd be but this is actually good, this is giving him more control and he thinks Tucker needs it, needs to not make decisions and besides that he- this is good, looking down on Tucker's face from up here. It's been a long time and Tucker's not _wrong,_ it's really tight but that stretch-burn isn't so bad and that overwhelming _full_ feeling reminds Wash of happier times. “I just- just need a minute.” When Tucker doesn't answer Washington opens his eyes and tips his head back down to see him staring. “What?”

Tucker's hands rub up and down his thighs, gripping just tight enough, stomach tense and hips moving in small, tiny little jerks as he tries to control himself. His chest heaves with big huge breaths, his lips are bitten dark and his pupils are blown so big that his eyes are almost black. “Wash, you...you look seriously good up there.”

Wash blinks in surprise. “ _I_ look good?”

Tucker laughs and it makes his dick nudge inside Wash in a way that makes him shudder, toes curling. Wash spreads his legs a little farther to sit down, puts all his weight on his knees as he starts to rock. “Mm, is this good? You all right?”

“Shit yeah,” Tucker breathes. The cords of his neck stand out when he presses his head back into the pillow and god, god damn it, if Wash was an artist he'd chisel a fucking statue of how fucking perfect that looks. “Wash you look sooo good sitting on my dick.”

“You sure that's not just the endorphines talking?” Wash jokes, though his gut keeps pulling tighter, heart trip-trapping in his chest when Tucker starts to arch up into it, rolling his hips up when Wash rocks back down. “Ahh, shit,” he curses and leans back with a hand on Tucker's knee, trying to get more pressure against his prostate.

“No good? Do we gotta move?”

“No no, this is good. I- just, uh.” Wash lets out a trembling breath. It sort of occurs to him then that he's actually having sex, _real_ sex, with Lavernius Tucker, the understanding rolling in like a coastal fog as he fucks himself down onto Tucker, as Tucker fucks up into him, Tucker's hands pulling at his thighs and gripping, squeezing, moving up to his hips, cupping behind his knees. He was so determined to do this right, to make Tucker think of anything else that he'd forgotten what it meant. This is the second time they're having sex. Tucker really _did_ mean more than once. He came here for comfort, he came here for sex; he came here for something a little more than just a jaunt with a fuck buddy.

This is more than just sating a need.

“Oh fuck, Wash, fuck,” Tucker groans, hips shoving up harder. “I'm not gonna last long dude, you...I'm not gonna make it, I can't.”

“It's fine,” Wash pants. His legs are starting to cramp anyway. “Go ahead, it's all right.”

Tucker comes not even a few minutes later, hips jerking up in little punches that feel good but not good enough and Wash stays there, clenches around Tucker's dick to make it as good as he can for him until Tucker's wilting back down against his mattress with a gasp. “Damn....Wash, holy shit, you're good at that.”

“You don't have a point of reference,” Wash points out as he wraps a hand around his dick to jerk off.

“What?” Tucker cracks an eye open to give Wash a look. “I've had chicks ride me before. You're good, man.” He wraps a hand around Wash's hand, rubs a thumb against the head of his dick, slips his other hand under to play with Wash's balls. “Here, here, c'mon baby.”

 _Baby?_ Wash might have to break Tucker of that habit. “Nngh, you should...you should pull out, I'm gonna-” His gut clenches and it's gonna be soon, it's- Tucker keeps thumbing his slit, he's still hard inside him but that won't last long and Wash is almost- A groan slips out of his mouth and he pants around it. “Oh god, Tucker, _shit,_ ” and Tucker doesn't pull out so when Wash tucks in around himself, shoulders hunched as he comes in stripes over Tucker's chest and squeezes down on his dick Tucker throws his head back with a whimper that almost sounds like he's in pain.

“Ah fuck, fuck, Wash, ahhhhh that hurts so good,” and he's jerking his hips up again and Wash will deny the sound that comes out of him until his dying day because it was high-pitched and needy as _fuck_ when Tucker's dick brushed his prostate _._

A year ago, they'd been doing hand-to-hand drills and Wash had pinned Tucker like this (sort of like this) where he was over him, both of them panting and he remembers, now, maybe that's when it had started because Tucker had been glaring at him then and Wash had thought something like, _I could get used to this._ He'd thought it was because he liked showing Tucker his place.

Wow, he'd been so wrong.

Wash cleans up with an actual washcloth and gives Tucker the trash bin for the condom because he's civilized, thanks, and it's when they're stretched out together under the covers that he brings it up. “So you're...into that.”

“Into what? Fucking?” Tucker snorts into Wash's neck. “Yeah dude, I'd say I'm definitely into it.”

“No,” Wash sighs, slapping Tucker lightly on the back. “I mean, y'know. Some kinky stuff.”

“Kinky stuff? Yeah I guess.” Tucker pushes himself up on an elbow, squinting at Wash in the dark, eyes catching just the faint glow of the clock readout on Wash's nightstand display. “Wait you mean from that 'hurts so good' thing? I mean, doesn't everybody like that? Y'know, where you just came and like, you get that little bit more and it's like god _damn_ what a good day to be alive.”

“No, Tucker, not everybody likes that.  You have kinks.”

"Dude, that's  _so_ badass."

 

* * *

 

Training becomes a problem.

 _I love your ass,_ Tucker moans, around what sounds a bitten lip as he jogs after Washington. Thank god he has his helmet on. Wash can feel the blush crawling up the back of his neck like a fever. _God, I mean, just fuckin' look at it. I could bounce a quarter off that and get fifty cents back._

 _Oh my god Tucker, stop_.

He can't live like this.

“Seriously, Wash?” Carolina asks. “How old are you?”

“It's not my fault!” Wash flaps his arms, feeling utterly ridiculous about having to approach her about this in the first place, but her laughing at him over it is just the humble icing on the humiliation cake. “He keeps opening a private channel with me and trying to dirty talk. Even when I'm not into it, it's distracting.”

“I really don't want to hear about what you're into.”

“Look, I've been thinking it's time the Captains start training under specialists more geared to their strengths anyway.” Wash sighs and leans back against the conference table, folding his arms. “Grif and Simmons could still use some basic endurance training...especially Grif, but Tucker's gotten into the habit of doing his own training now so as long as someone stays on top of him, he'll do it.”

Church shows up just to be an ass, as is his wont. “So is that role closed to you now, or...?”

Wash ignores him. “Tucker needs someone more specialized to teach him; I think Kimball would know who to pick. And Carolina. I think Caboose would do well with you.”

Carolina lifts her chin and eyeballs Washington appraisingly.

“You want us to spend _more_ time around Caboose? Fuck you Wash, he's your problem now.”

“You really aren't fooling anybody, Epsilon.”

“The hell do you mean by that?!”

Carolina cuts in. “Are you saying that because Caboose will break anybody else he trains with?”

Fuck. Found out. “Not...necessarily.”

“All right.” Carolina waves a hand through Church's avatar when he shrieks in protest. “Church, relax. You can stay offline during our sessions if all you're going to do is complain. But I'm interested to see what he can do with the proper training.”

Wash is interested to see if Caboose can _retain_ the proper training as Carolina expects him to, but he'll just have to make sure to check in with him frequently. Moreover, he needs to bring the personnel reassignment suggestions to Kimball's attention so he can get he paperwork started. “All right Carolina. And- Look, he's, he doesn't respond well to yelling. Or threats. He either cries or just tunes it out, so.”

Carolina cants her weight to the side. “Okay, so what _does_ he respond well to?”

Wash bites the inside of his cheek. “Um. Emotional honesty and affection, mostly.”

“Yeah, good luck Carolina,” laughs Church, and for once Washington agrees with him.

 

* * *

 

Tucker and Wash have their first fight when Tucker finds out.

“Wash, what the hell,” Tucker snaps when he runs into him in the cafeteria. Wash looks around like he's not sure Tucker noticed the tons of people also there, but apparently Tucker doesn't _care_ because he just drops into the seat across from him and slams his tray down. “Are you trying to get rid of me? Jesus, you're such a fucking wimp.”

“Oh wow,” Donut murmurs, shoving his own tray aside and resting his chin on his hand as he stares between them. Grif pulls Donut's tray toward himself.

“Okay, _that_ I have a problem with,” Wash says as he finally lowers his carrot stick. It's difficult to be authoritative when holding a carrot stick. “Is this about the personnel shuffle? It's normal in the military. You've moved beyond what I'm able to teach you, so you've been reassigned. It's not that difficult to understand.”

“That is _not_ why you did it,” Tucker scoffs, angrily adding water to his dehydrated milk and shaking the carton. “You fucking did it because you're too pussy to tell me to stop picking on you.”

Wash glares. “Captain Tucker, when have I _ever_ had a problem telling you what to do?”

“I dunno, maybe you can't talk around your mouth full of my _dick._ ”

Donut covers his mouth. “Uh oh.”

“Oh dude, you are so fucking dead,” Grif chimes in.

Washington hears their commentary muffled through a layer of anger and hurt and doubt that he can't quite shake (Is he? Is he the one screwing things up because they have an intimate relationship now?) so instead he stands up and picks up his tray. “Then I guess that's not gonna be a problem for you anymore.” And he leaves.

He hears Tucker squawking behind him, hears him ask, “ _Seriously?_ ” but he doesn't turn around, not once.

What a fucking _prick._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you, story  
> what are you doing  
> you are only supposed to be smut, why are you doing this
> 
> (i used [cosmo headlines](http://thoughtcatalog.com/ted-pillow/2013/11/20-so-bad-theyre-great-cosmo-headlines/) for the story and chapter titles, fight me)


	2. Feel Happier in 9 Seconds

Washington doesn't hear from Tucker for almost two weeks after their altercation (which Donut calls the Mess Hall Brawl of '99, despite the year being nowhere near '99). Tucker doesn't try to talk to him, doesn't send him notes or letters like he had before, doesn't text him pictures of rocks that look like boobs. He attends his new lessons with his new instructor, who Kimball had sworn would be a great fit.

Fine with Wash. That's how he wanted it in the first place.

“So should we not be talking about Tucker or something now?” Grif drawls when Washington sits down across from he and Simmons at lunch one day. “Because if this is gonna be one of those 'you can't be friends with me if you're friends with him' breakups, then I'll just come right out and say I'm fine not being friends with either of you.”

“I really don't care,” Washington answers. There's no way anybody could tell that just hearing Tucker's name burns, his voice is so even and sincere. That's because he's a master of his emotions, an Adult, and he can behave responsibly and professionally in any environment even if he's having a conflict with people.

“But you guys _were_ together.” Simmons sounds horrified and fascinated. He could actually be planning to incorporate this quarrel into his self-insert fanfiction he thinks nobody knows about. “You. With _Tucker._ ”

“Not like that.” Wash shoves his tray away. “I have things- I have other- I'm going to go be elsewhere.” _Damn it._

“Smooth,” Grif calls at his back as he stalks off.

Whenever Washington sees that familiar flash of aqua he either turns away or just passes by, which he knows has to be infuriating because if there's one thing Tucker can't stand, it's being ignored. He checks up after him on paper because it's a habit, because Tucker's still his teammate even if they're not...whatever they were before, and Washington might be pissed but he doesn't want Tucker to be dead so he checks.

He sits in on one of Carolina and Caboose's sparring sessions and tries desperately not to have a heart attack when he sees Carolina throwing Caboose around and then, terrifyingly, when Caboose throws her right back. “He's doing pretty well,” Wash says with an air of disbelief.

“Dr. Grey and I've been tag-teaming the teaching approach method,” Carolina says and Washington can detect a hint of pride in her tone that makes her sound much younger and happier. He watches the easy way Caboose and Carolina move around each other, how Carolina says, “Wash, look at this,” and has Caboose stick out an arm for her to start doing chin-ups on.

Wash's mouth twists into a smile, a little heartsick for some closeness and familiarity of his own but unwilling to rain on their parade with his own problems. “Convenient.”

“You were right, though,” Carolina says when she drops down from Caboose's arm and points him off in the direction of the showers. “Emotional honesty and affection go much further than strict orders. Obviously he also needs discipline and I've had to get creative with a reward system that works for him, but he's _responding_ and retaining so much more than I thought he would. Did you know that he managed to surprise me today? He's fast, and he's strong and he's actually very, very observant if you get his attention focused. Dr. Grey showed me some of his brain scans, and the scarring doesn't look that different from what we'd already expected so she's developing a treatment plan that might help him to form appropriate coping mechanisms for his memory and attention problems. If we can get a handle on those he'll stop being such a danger to himself and others, and _then_ imagine the good he could do. We might even get that heavy machinery ban lifted.”

“You're...really into this,” Washington notes. He shouldn't be surprised; Carolina worked well with all of the Freelancers under her command until that damn leaderboard and the fragments had been introduced, but he'd still never have thought she'd go to such lengths for just one soldier, let alone for someone like _Caboose._

Carolina hesitates a beat too long, a pause Wash recognizes as her having a silent conversation with Epsilon before she shrugs and directs a puff of air up at her sweaty bangs. “He could be an incredibly valuable asset in the field if he were just utilized properly. Church is actually the one who pointed that out to me.”

Washington doesn't bother hiding his grin. “Did he now?”

Carolina grins back. “He says fuck you.” He probably said a lot more than that.

She sobers after a moment and Washington knows that the lessons she's been giving Caboose have been just as much for her benefit as for his when she admits, however reluctantly, “I don't know, Wash. I...” She sniffs and looks away. “Maybe I'm...trying to make up for some things. If I'd just noticed what was going on sooner with Maine-”

“Boss,” Wash interrupts quietly.

She sighs and shakes her head. “I know. I know, I know. I'm not trying to atone for the past.”

“Or for things that aren't your fault.”

She doesn't answer him on that one. “So. I've heard things aren't going well with you and Tucker. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I thought you weren't interested in what I'm into.”

“Not if this is some sort of foreplay thing.”

“What kind of foreplay would- nevermind.” Washington shakes his head. “We're just fighting about him being transferred. He's being an ass about it, saying I'm shuffling him out because I couldn't handle it and refuses to see the benefits of the transfer in favor of his own assumptions. Not really new behavior for him. Damn it, he's always so resistant to getting _better._ ”

“Yeah,” Carolina says absently, and Washington knows it's not directed at him. It's always weird talking to her out of armor; he can never tell if she's talking to Epsilon or not. “Look Wash, do you think maybe the reason Tucker's being an ass is because he's hurt over the transfer?”

“ _Hurt?_ ” Why the hell- It's not like he- “I don't- _Why?”_

“Wash.” Carolina rolls her eyes. “This may come as a shock, but there _is_ a slim chance he likes spending time around you too.”

Oh.

The look Carolina is giving him is distinctly sympathetic, that uncomfortable mix of pity and understanding that Wash pointedly tries to avoid wherever possible. That look never works out well for him. That look leads to long discussions which lead to nights where he stares up at the ceiling for hours and hours and tries to remember how to be a human being, presumably one that takes a fucking nap once in a while.

“Look, I'm not saying you need to be the one to talk to him first.” Carolina shrugs a shoulder. “He's a difficult person to get along with anyway, and you deserve an apology. But sometimes it's not as simple as it looks. Relationships take a lot of communication or they just...” Here she finally looks her age, lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, weathered, beautiful. “They fall apart.”

The _It's not a relationship,_ sticks in Washington's throat. He remembers power armor pressed against his sleep shirt, hands sliding up his back, Tucker dead asleep sprawled over his chest all night long. The best night he's had in a long time. “I'll think about it.”

Caboose comes out of the showers then, barrels out actually, yelling something about Donut's soap figure collection and how it's not his fault and Washington has to go handle that. He's thankful, honestly; Carolina's perceptive enough on her own without having someone who'd literally been inside his head giving her pointers on all his tells.

 

* * *

 

Even if he were so inclined, Wash doesn't have time to track Tucker down and actually talk. Mercenary activity surges suddenly and as Washington is one of the most experienced soldiers with a respectable amount of free time, he ends up getting sent out on more missions with the more inexperienced troops. He and Carolina are never deployed at the same time, just to make sure the capital always has a Freelancer in it (and he doesn't think it's arrogant to think of himself and Carolina as Chorus's big guns in the same way Locus and Felix are Charon's, but he _does_ think that Doyle in particular tends to underestimate the effect the Reds and Blues have on morale).

It's strange; most of the squads he accompanies are troops he's trained before, usually with one or two officers from either the Feds or Rebels but he's still nervous, every time, talking to people who look at him like he's something special. The sim troopers never looked at him like that. Whenever he barked orders, they complained or sassed him or shot the shit for half an hour before finally, reluctantly, obeying.

Why does he miss that? He's so messed up.

Their first mission goes smoothly. Either the mercs are disorganized or weren't expecting Washington, because their front lines fall like a flimsy house of cards the second Wash puts pressure on one of their weaker links in their defense. Neither Felix nor Locus show their ugly mugs once during that fight, or the one after, or the one after _that._

It's kind of nice to rake in victories like this, though. Even if they're for tiny little skirmishes, the kids all get to cheer, get to feel good about themselves, pat each other on the back. Sometimes there are even friendships between Feds and Rebels, though those are particularly rare and seem to dissolve once the troops step back into Armonia. Watching them fight together, save each other, defend their friends and homeland against the pirates really strikes a chord in Wash and makes him feel old and sentimental. The first word, sure, he'd thought of it in reference to himself before (it's hard not to, when most of the soldiers on Chorus are barely old enough to enlist), but sentimental? No.

But that must be wrong too. Wash might not collect knick knacks, might not decorate his quarters with pictures and posters and personal effects but that doesn't mean he's not sentimental. That doesn't mean that whenever he hear Jensen fumbling out a sentence he doesn't hear Simmons's trademark nervous stammer, that doesn't mean that whenever he sees Bitters recline in the dropship on the way to their assignment he doesn't see Grif sprawling out wherever he can find to catch a few Zs. No, Wash is absolutely sentimental and he knows who he has to blame for that.

It's just that now, unlike before, he doesn't think it's so much of a bad thing.

Maybe it's Locus. Maybe all that bullshit Locus had been spewing at him at the jammer had dug deeper than he thought, but not in a bad way. Wash hadn't bought into any of it and he's not buying into it now, but it's at least given him a place for him to set his lowest expectations for himself. What Locus hadn't understood was that Washington has already been to his lowest point. He's already dug to the bottom of that emotional quarry and spent too much time there, among the rocks, becoming acquainted with the worst of himself. Pulling himself up and out of it is hard, but he knows what he has to do and he's been _doing_ it.

Putting bullets into the heads of other people might not seem like self-improvement, but it's all relative. One less pirate out here is one less pirate to shoot at kids who should be in college, should be enjoying their lives instead of toting around chain guns and medic gear. For every neck he snaps he makes sure there's one less threat to Armonia, to the Reds and Blues whenever they get shuffled back into active duty. Washington's done with grand, noble causes. They'd never sat well with him before, and he won't play at being capable of adopting them now.

What Wash is living for now is stepping off that Pelican after a day in the field and seeing Carolina saunter up to give him shit for an amateur knife-wound across his bicep. He lives for the troops who come up to him shyly, thank him for his help out there, for his expertise, for the ones who tell him they feel better with him at their sides. What he lives for are the moments when Grif and Simmons kick out a chair for him in the Mess Hall, when Donut offers to polish his armor because it's dire, just _dire_ (though he has to fend Donut and his buffing cloth off whenever he's still wearing it, thanks Donut, _later_ Donut). He lives for Sarge barking _son_ at him when he requisitions a warthog that Lopez is still trying to fix up (and the twinge of longing at that comes with its own set of emotional hangups he can't even begin to get into). He lives for Caboose stumbling over to him after his practice with Carolina and whining, complaining, then happily reporting how much _fun_ he's having, how happy he is to spend time with Carolina and Church before he leans against Wash and passes out there and almost buries him in six-foot-six of gigantic manchild.

The moments Wash lives for are these.

And, he reminds himself in the midst of his anger, for Tucker. For Tucker's potential, for Tucker's willingness to try when all his life he's been encouraged to stop _._ Wash lives for Tucker's acid tongue when he's been backed into a corner, he lives for Tucker making sure Caboose's little pill container gets refilled every week. He lives for Tucker laughing, Tucker jogging, Tucker smacking Palomo on the back of the head.

Wash thinks a lot about how, now, he desperately wants to be alive. He wants to keep living when he sees kids drop next to him in the field, dead before they hit the ground. He wants to keep living, he wants to keep _them_ living, and it amazes him how Locus can get everything so wrong (but, then again, it doesn't).

One day on a mission to reclaim an old weapons cache, Washington sees a grenade fall into their ranks, he moves by rote. He still wants to live. He hasn't wanted to die in a long time, if he thinks about it, but there's no time to think about it when he shoulders past a wounded cadet, when he locks down his armor in the hopes of surviving this and when he throws himself onto the grenade.

He just has enough time to think, _I should have made the time to talk to Tucker,_ before he knows nothing else.

 

* * *

 

His world is black and it burns.

 

* * *

 

Allison haunts him, her face faded, but perfect and terrible.

 

* * *

 

_Caboose will be so upset._

 

* * *

 

When Washington wakes up, it’s to the ambient sounds of a hospital. He panics then, almost, because the last time he was in a proper ICU with actual equipment that made noises was on the _Mother of Invention,_ but there’s a hand in his and that’s the glaring difference that anchors him to the now. It still takes a few moments of staring blearily at the ceiling, waiting for his vision to un-fuzz (it doesn’t) for him to really get a handle on who and where he is, but he gets it.

With monumental effort, Washington looks over.

Tucker’s head is down on the bed, pillowed on one of his own arms. His fingers are only just barely tucked over the side of Washington’s hand, avoiding the splints but clutching tightly enough that he can’t be asleep. He’s in his survival suit; the dark mesh pattern of the material bisected by bright aqua highlights stretches over his shoulders, disappears beneath a waterfall of untied ropey hair.

Wash wonders how long Tucker’s been sitting here, barely holding onto him, afraid to hurt him but more afraid to go. His mouth feels too dry to part for talking so he squeezes Tucker’s fingers, brushes his thumb over the tips. Tucker’s head jerks up and this time, Washington isn’t surprised by what he sees, even if it does tighten uncomfortably in his chest to see it. Red-rimmed eyes and a worried downward slant of his brows.

“You got fucked up,” Tucker says hoarsely.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Tucker doesn’t bother with a recap, doesn’t bother to tell him what happened because there’s too much on his mind. His eyes settle on Wash’s collarbone and stare there, not really seeing much of anything as he takes a deep breath, his own thumb rubbing over Wash’s pointer finger (the only one without a splint). “I just kept,” a hiccuping inhale, “I couldn’t stop thinking if- What if, what if the last thing you heard from me was that shit I said about you in the mess hall?” Tucker ducks his head, shoulders trembling. “Fuck, I don’t think you're too pussy to tell me anything Wash, I just- I thought you were trying to get rid of me, and we never saw each other all that much anyway and then you go and- I just thought, great, there he goes, he’ll get assigned to other shit and probably go out in the field more and I'll never see his goddamn face again. And I was so pissed off at that, like we all didn't already spend enough time split up, I thought, like, maybe it wasn't as good for you or something and this was your way of telling me that that was it, there's nothing left in here for you. Because fuck man, I know how you are okay? I know about the nightmares, and the fucking- The insomnia and the- and the thing where you never think something good is gonna happen to you again, I'm not _blind,_ I know you had problems with that. But then fucking Palomo, I had to hear this from _Palomo_ that you were- That you'd just done it again, you just threw yourself down again like you're worth less than some fuckup kids and it's not like I don't get it, I just can't-”

 _God, no, stop, please._ “ _Tuck-er_ ,” Wash croaks out. It's all he can manage.

Tucker stops. Sniffs hard and rubs the inside of his wrist against his nose. His fingers squeeze tighter, painfully. “I can’t forget about _you_ , Wash,” Tucker chokes out as he bows back over his arm, forehead against Wash’s battered hand as he trembles.

Wash watches Tucker shake and his heart _aches_. It seems improbable, that someone could care about him this much. Years ago he’d have said it was impossible. Before that, he’d probably have said it was impossible for _anyone_ to care about _anybody_ that much, but now he’s staring at the evidence because Tucker, bless him, _damn_ him, doesn’t know how to be anything other than honest and forthcoming and emotional. Tucker who tries to be unaffected and fails at it even worse than Grif, who just takes all his hurts and hides them inside behind a thick veneer of abrasive personality traits so nobody can use it against him.

That's the same Tucker clinging to him now.

Wash wants to know, now. He wants to know how Tucker grew up. He wants to know where, when, with whom, he wants to know more about Tucker than just what he’s seen since he was rescued (yes, rescued, he thinks) by the Reds and Blues. He wants to know _more._ And even more than that-

Even more than that, he wants Tucker to know more about _him._

Wash brushes his thumb over Tucker’s forehead. Tucker holds his hand a little tighter, presses his forehead against Washington’s wrist. They have a lot they’ll need to work out. They’ll have to have a lot of awkward talks, something with which neither of them are adept. They’ll have to give each other the benefit of the doubt. They'll have to communicate.

They’ll have to _change._

 

* * *

 

Carolina comes to see him a day after Wash wakes up. It kind of strikes him then, how different she is from the woman who'd approached him just a couple years ago, bitter and angry and suspicious of every good will gesture lobbed in her direction. She'd reminded him so strongly of himself and he'd followed her with little complaint because he'd been hoping, praying that somehow if she stayed around the Reds and Blues long enough they'd change her like they changed him, they'd encourage her to change _herself._

They had. They still are.

“Did you know that I'm part of the official Blood Gulch Daddy Issues club?”

Washington was not expecting that. An interesting story would be nice; the hospital is a horrible place to be when you have chronic insomnia.

“I told the Reds about who my father is.” She shrugs. “We were having some beers. Church was offline. It felt like a good time to open up.” She throws it out casually, like she hadn't just peeled herself open in front of a bunch of assholes (caring assholes, but still assholes) and laid one of her worst, most painful secrets to bare. “It was actually really nice, to just talk about that stuff with people who never knew him.”

Carolina's relationship with her father had been and still is very complicated. Washington had learned that through the memories Epsilon had burned into his brain, but he also saw it in the lines of her face when she'd left that back room of the Director's facility, had heard it in her voice whenever she bantered light-heartedly with Epsilon. Carolina might have her heart locked up in an industrial safe but that doesn't mean it's not beating.

“So you joined a club,” he croaks. “Good for you.”

“Yeah.” But she _is_ different. She still walks the same, still holds herself proud like how he imagines the ancient Greeks viewed their warrior gods, hard marble lines and sharp chins and cheeks. There's just something softer about her eyes now. “Grif's a member, Simmons is charter president. Tucker is a satellite member since he never had a problem with his father, just barely knew him. Donut is treasurer and 'official mixer organizer.' Apparently Caboose would be a member if he remembered enough about his dad to contribute.” She chuckles.

“Is there anybody from Blood Gulch who _isn't_ a member?”

“Sarge,” she says thoughtfully, “because Grif is convinced he emerged from the earth fully formed and forty-five.”

Laughter helps more than it hurts. “You seem happier. Is it Caboose?”

Carolina threads and unthreads her fingers together and apart. She picks at some dirt underneath a nail. “Partially. Maybe it's everything. I think I'm just finally...”

“Changing,” Wash finishes for her.

Carolina looks up.

“You get more used to it as the days go by,” Wash tells her. “Still comes up and smacks you in the face sometimes, though. But it gets easier to handle.”

“Wash,” she sighs, sitting back in her chair. “Thanks.”

It's not just for the talk, not even just for the opportunity to meet the same people he had. Maybe it's just a thank you for surviving; for living through the same shit she had, for soldiering on when he'd lost count of the times he'd wanted to lay down and die already. If he hadn't clung to life the way he had, he wouldn't be here now, wouldn't be having this talk with her, wouldn't know what she means when she talks about those asshole sim soldiers with a look on her face so vulnerable and tender that kinship swells up in Wash's chest and threatens to drown out everything else. They're the last two soldiers from Freelancer; them, and Epsilon. The last remnants of a Project that destroyed so many lives. ...but that doesn't have to be a bad thing, if they don't want it to be. They can get good again, together. “My pleasure, boss.”

 

* * *

 

Because the extent of his injuries is medically speaking, 'got real fucked up,' Washington is out of the ICU in days and released from the medical wing only a week after that. He has some strength rebuilding exercises to attend for his hand and arm, but considering how badly it _could_ have gone he doesn’t have anything to complain about.

Tucker’s there with his fatigues when he gets released. “Your shiner’s finally going away,” Tucker notes as Washington gets dressed, easing his wrist gingerly through the sleeve of his shirt.

“Yeah. I’m going to pick up training the recruits again, since I can’t go back to active duty until I can hold a rifle securely.” He plucks at the neckline until the cloth settles right. Still feels like he’s naked; he hates being out of armor. “Are you still working with, uh. What’s his name?”

“Colonel Nguyen.” Tucker comes over and helps Wash tuck his shirt into his pants without even making a joke or giving him a lewd look. A sure sign that things are still not great between them…probably. “He’s good. He’s done a lot of swordsmanship stuff, so…”

“Right. General Kimball mentioned that.” Wash lets Tucker buckle his belt for him too. The silence between them is stuffy and horrible and Wash wants to escape it, but not today, damn it. No, he’s wised up to how he reacts to things. When he wants to run, that’s when he most needs to sit his ass down and examine the situation. For Tucker’s sake, he’s going to put his back into relationship thing. “Tucker, I…should have discussed the transfer with you before putting in the paperwork.”

“Yeah, you should’ve,” Tucker says defensively, but steps back and folds his arms instead of tearing off somewhere. He scuffs his own boot against the tile. “Maybe I…could’ve reacted better. Instead of biting your head off first thing in the morning.”

“Maybe,” Wash agrees, not unkindly. He thinks he can allow Tucker a little bit of anger. Not a ‘screaming in the mess hall’ amount, but some. It’s clear that Tucker regards their time together with a lot more heart than Wash had previously thought, though who could blame him? _I want my best friend here and he’s gone, and all I’m left with is you!_ He’s not the only one here to blame for this mess, and he has to remind himself sharply of that when he starts swinging too far one way or the other. “Tucker. Could we sit down?”

“We’re gonna have a really awkward talk, right?” Tucker looks just as reluctant as Washington feels and that helps, sort of. It also helps that even though he clearly wants to be anywhere but here, he still sits down in one of the rickety visitor’s chairs.

Wash eases himself down onto the edge of the cot. “I know now that you actually _wanted_ to keep working under me-”

“ _Bow chika bow wow,_ ” Tucker murmurs, though his heart isn’t in it. Wash doesn’t mind. It’s a good sign.

“-but I think for our sake that moving you is for the best. Not just for our sake, either; for _yours._ ” There’s no comfortable way to arrange his arms. This is so awkward.

“There’s seriously nothing else you could’ve taught me?”

Well. “Maybe a few things,” Wash admits, “but nothing you couldn’t learn from anybody else. I think what’s more important is re-establishing our professional relationship into something more like peers than mentor and student if we’re going to continue…whatever it is we’re doing right now.”

“Okay, first off ‘mentor’ is seriously overselling it,” Tucker snorts. “You were more like my hardass C.O. who wouldn’t let me sleep in-”

“ _Most_ C.O.s don’t let their men sleep in Tucker, that’s not exactly a qualifier for being a hardass.”

“Well you were a hardass in other things! And you were a dick.”

“If we’re being honest, you were a dick also. I hated ordering you around because you’d always bitch about it and make me feel like an ass.”

Tucker blinks and sits up a little straighter. “You _hated_ ordering me around?”

“W- yeah, duh. Obviously. Who likes it when someone’s pissed at them? I mean, aside from people like Church and Tex, they were-”

Tucker nods. “Yeah. _Weird._ ”

“Yeah.”

Tucker scrubs his nails along his scalp, huffing out a long breath. He spots Washington's boots, kneeling in front of the cot and helping Wash stuff his feet into them. Wash's heart starts pounding as Tucker begins to lace them up, pulling the laces tight and snug. His words are going to run away from him in a minute if he doesn't get a handle on himself, but hadn't Carolina made that clear already? _Communication._ Talking to someone took a certain amount of humility. Washington had forgotten what it was like to pull yourself open for another person to see. He'd had to, to save himself from the Project, from the Director. He'd had to train himself out of emotional honesty and he knew it, to an extent, knew it wasn't his forte.

But he doesn't have to be adept at something to just _try_.

“Tucker, I...I care about you.”

Tucker glances up through his lashes, then returns to tying up Washington's boots. “Shit dude, I know that.”

Right. “I mean, I really care about you.” He waits for Tucker to look up again before continuing, hand clenched into a fist atop his knee, bad arm pressed against his belly as his heart flutters in his chest. “You- mean a lot to me.” God, he's just repeating himself. Come on Washington, up the ante. “I think about you- probably more than I should. And not just about sex stuff.”

“'Sex stuff,'” Tucker echoes incredulously.

Wash groans. The amused twinkle in Tucker's eyes is wonderful and annoying. “Shut up, you know what I mean. I think about things like how you're doing, if you found that soap you like to use. I think about that time you said you've never seen a wrestling match but you've always wanted to go because it sounded funny.” Oh god, now he's done it. He's let loose the hounds of hell. He'll never shut up now. “I want to know more about Junior. I want to know about where you grew up, if you wanted to be something else as a kid.” Everything he's saying sounds so stupid. Tucker looks bewildered. He isn't doing this right. “I want-” He chokes, turns away, jaw tight. He's screwed it up.

Tucker's hands come up from his boots, cup the back of his calves and squeeze. “Hey.”

Wash looks at him, face still burning. Tucker is beautiful as ever, even more gorgeous for that open, curious expression he's wearing. Wash will never get over it. He'd told Carolina she was changing but if there's any one of them who's changed the most, it's Tucker. Tucker still drags his feet here and there, but Wash can see it; hr _tries._ God, every day, he tries a little more than the last. He's a better soldier. He's a more confident leader. He hasn't lost the pieces of himself that make him _him,_ and sure he could still be impatient and selfish and lazy, but who among them was a saint? Perfection was something the Project had reached for and in that endeavor, everyone had burned themselves out. Maybe that's what the problem was, at the core: nobody knew how to just _be._

Tucker rubs Wash's calves. “It's cool, dude.” He smiles and Wash's heart breaks with it, because good things can't just be good anymore, they have to hurt too. “Y'know, when Junior was younger he couldn't speak English for _shit._ We had to come up with some weird in-between words 'cause his little toothy mouth couldn't make the right sounds.” Tucker shrugs a shoulder. “You can make the sounds, so. Just keep trying until you get it. Right?”

 _I'm in love._ He is. He's in love. “David,” Wash blurts out before he can stop himself, but even with it out there he knows it's all right. “It's my- That's not me anymore. I'm Washington now but, I wanted- I just- I thought you might like to know.”

It takes a second for it to sink in but once it does Tucker blinks, eyes going wide before he leans forward and rests his forehead against Wash's knee. “Okay, cool,” he says faintly. Wash isn't sure (everything is so _nebulous_ now) but he thinks he might've just overwhelmed Tucker, too. “David. Nice name. But I'll stick with Wash.”

“Thanks.”

Tucker lifts his head and Wash can't look away from his eyes, doesn't move an inch until Tucker pushes up with his hands on his knees, until Tucker leans in to kiss him and mutters, “So goddamn dramatic, all the fuckin' time,” against his mouth, the taste of his voice like something good, something he can't identify but something Wash remembers faintly as unmistakably home.

 

* * *

 

The change is not immediate, but Washington did not expect it to be.

It's clunky, at first. Wash approaches Tucker with a 'talking schedule' and Tucker actually throws the tablet in his face, all sarcastic quips and posturing until he comes slinking back a few days later. “Look, if this is...something you wanna do then. Like. Whatever. I guess we can do that.”

It's not an apology but it really does help Wash see something he hadn't really considered before. Tucker is almost as bad at this as he is. They have a lot of work ahead of them.

 

* * *

 

Washington is going over the numbers with Kimball and Doyle and he discovers that Caboose-related incidents are at an all time low. He heads over to the training room to congratulate Caboose and Carolina both for their progress and finds Caboose facedown on the ground, yelling nonsense words into the training mats while Carolina shouted at the back of his head to _get up, stop lazing around, we already talked about this and it's not up for discussion again_ and he leaves before they can see him. It kind of makes him feel better; Carolina had seemed to take to Caboose so _easily,_ like she takes to everything she does that Washington had been developing an inferiority complex. Maybe he's not so hopeless.

 

* * *

 

Tucker joins him for lunch two weeks after he gets out of the hospital and while they don't talk too much, he stays the whole time. Grif and Simmons give them both annoyed looks and scoot away to have their own, “Way less awkward” conversation but Wash is happy, so happy. He knows Tucker is pushing himself to make whatever this is work (and maybe they should figure out what to call it).

One day at lunch Tucker hooks his ankle around Wash's and Wash lets it stay there. It's the first prolonged contact they've had since their kiss in the hospital. Wash savors it.

 

* * *

 

He pokes his head into one of Tucker's lessons after asking and is a little surprised to see Tucker practicing with a dummy sword. Custom, cut in the same rough shape and balance as his plasma blade but obviously dull. That had to be good, right? It meant he was good enough to land hits.

Tucker does most of his sword practice out of his armor. It's a huge big deal, he greets his instructor properly and they part ways properly too before Tucker trots over to his sweat towel. He sees Wash hanging out by the door and nods at him, rubs at his neck and turns away.

“You look good out there,” he notes when Tucker joins him by the door and they leave together.

“Yeah?” Tucker sounds so openly vulnerable that Wash's heart slams against his ribs with all the trust he's earned. He loves it, he's terrified of it, he'll never let it go. “I mean, I'm doing pretty good, I could probably kick your ass in a sword fight.”

He might, unless Wash got to use knives. “We could always officially test that.”

“Nnnope! No thank you. No training with you anymore, remember? I'm too damn good for that now.”

“Right,” Wash says dryly. Their arms bump as they walk too close together. Neither of them move away. “Are you sticking to your PT schedule?”

“What? Psh, dude, yeah, of course, like all the time, every day.”

Wash goes for casual. It would be easier if he could go for quietly aggressive or mildly threatening, but instead he has to go for casual. “Well. We could start jogging together, if you want.”

Tucker lowers his towel from his face and gives Wash a look as they swing a right toward the communal showers. “What, like in the morning? Won't it get in the way of you training the rookies?”

Wash shrugs. “I could scoot their time forward. Might make them like me a little more.”

“That's totally an abuse of power.”

“Well, if you don't want to-”

“Whoa-hoh, I never said I didn't want to!” Tucker grins and snaps his towel from his shoulders, flapping it in Wash's direction as he heads for the shower doors. “I'll set my alarm. Fuck me man, I'll get up at any hour to see your ass in running shorts.”

Tucker leaves Wash sputtering at the swinging doors but it's good, it's so so good to have that back, to have at least that the same.

 

* * *

 

Change happens all at once one day, almost a month later, when Wash and Tucker are having lunch together side-by-side, close enough that their legs are pressed together and Wash is basking in the warmth of the contact like a lizard in the sun.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD, YES,” Tucker screams suddenly, almost knocking over the table. Washington wraps an arm around his waist to yank him back down. “I called it! I fucking called it! Holy shit!” He punches the air.

“Tucker, _what are you doing,_ ” Wash asks desperately.

“I'll forward- here, just _look at this._ ”

Wash blinks when he receives a message notification on his HUD. He opens it.

**GRIF: wont b @ lunch, save me a tray**

He reads the message through a few times to make sure he's not missing something obvious. “Uh?”

“Wash. When would Grif _ever_ voluntarily miss a meal?” Tucker twists and grabs his shoulders, shakes him. Wash can't see his face past his visor but he thinks he knows what kind of expression is underneath it, all wide-eyed determination. “We gotta go by their quarters. I fucking _know_ they finally did it.”

“Who are-” Washington gasps and punches Tucker's shoulder. “ _No._ ”

“Yes, baby _yes!_ ”

“We're going right now.” Washington clambers up from the bench, grabbing onto Tucker when he gleefully scrambles after him. He still remembers all the torment, all the sick kissing noises Grif made whenever he and Tucker parted ways in the mess hall, still remembered Simmons complaining loudly about how _some_ people didn't know how to conduct themselves in a military setting (Wash! He said that to _him,_ Agent Washington!), still remembered Grif and Sarge driving a _fucking Warthog_ almost literally through his and Tucker's argument at crash site Bravo and then having the audacity to throw down that 'lover's quarrel' line. Grif has it coming. Simmons sorta has it coming, but mostly Grif. “Get your helmet cam running.”

“Are you kidding me? It already _is._ ”

“And stop calling me baby.”

“Stop being so fucking hot all the time and I'll think about it.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Motherfucker_ ,” Grif hollers after Wash and Tucker as they bolt out of his quarters.

They know they won't be caught, that's not the issue, it's just more fun to run away than to just stroll away when someone is screaming for your blood. There's something wonderfully freeing about it, about enjoying yourself for the sake of the moment, allowing yourself to act like a fucking kid even though it's not proper. Washington's never felt like he could do this again as he and Tucker laugh and snort and giggle and dart past recruits and officers, narrowly miss being run down by a passing Mongoose and its passenger, as they find an alley and scramble into it, tripping over each other and grabbing each other's arms, wrists, shoulders as they laugh and laugh.

Washington looks over his shoulder (like Grif would have actually chased them four feet, let alone however far they just ran) before he returns to Tucker's side. “Did you get it?” he pants.

“I'm sending Church the file. He said he's gonna edit it to a midi cover of _Careless Whisper_ and put it up for sale in the commissary.”

Washington chokes. “Oh my god.”

“Dude. Wash.” Tucker's arms are around his waist suddenly but it's hard to cuddle up when both parties are in bulky power armor. “You're so hot when you're invading other people's privacy.”

“I cannot believe you just got turned on by _Grif and Simmons_.”

“Ugh!” Tucker jumps back and Wash laughs again, laughs more than he's laughed in years. Those muscles must be seriously out of shape because his gut hurts. “Wash, what the fuck! I was gonna ask if you wanna fuck and everything but now I'm probably just gonna go puke for an hour.”

Years ago Wash used to watch this sitcom that employed all these old comedic techniques. One of them was called a 'record scratch.' He hears that sound now. “Wait, you were?”

“I _was.”_

He can do this. He's been practicing. Washington gets Tucker backed up against the wall and smacks his hand against it, right there, right above his shoulder. ...ooh. Okay, he can see the appeal.

“I'm strongly considering it again.”

Wash smiles.

 

* * *

 

“Seriously, I haven't had fun like that in...I don't even remember how long.”

“Oh my god, Wash.” The look Tucker gives him is absolutely pitying, but in an exasperated way that doesn't make him hate it so much. “Shut up with your depressing life, _please_. Tell it to me later when we're not about to fuck, like for pillow talk or some shit.”

That's reasonable. “Okay, agreed.” Wash shimmies out of his survival suit, wrenching it down over his hips and plucking his legs free. “Let me just- I'll go get ready, you finish getting undressed.” He turns to hang up his suit when a hand stops him. It's not just a hand on his shoulder or his arm, or somewhere normal, but right there on his belly, Tucker's warm fingers spread over his navel and wow there's no reason that should be so sexual. None. _I see you, you little bastard_ , Wash thinks furiously at his overactive hindbrain as it wakes itself from its slumber. _Don't think you're getting the best of me this time._

“I was thinking, y'know. Like.” Tucker's fingers stroke over Wash's stomach. He won't look Wash in the eye, upper half of his survival suit hanging around his waist. “Maybe we could switch it up this time. Y'know, if you wanted to do some butt stuff with me.”

Somehow, even with how crass and unromantic that just was, Wash is still flying high. Maybe that's why he's flying high, because the idea of Tucker saying _Take me Wash, show me the pleasures of prostate massage_ would be too unbelievable. Wash would have to start suspecting a body double or a brain snatcher, but because Tucker just kind of coughed out _butt stuff or something_ it's more real and thus more hot because it's more _Tucker._

“I see,” is all he says, and it comes out strangled. “Yeah, sure, I mean.” Wash clears his throat. Yes. _Fucking yes._ Teenage Washbrain reanimates after weeks of lifelessness and begins to provide all the different sounds and faces Tucker would make at that first jab to his prostate. He's already a screamer, a squirmer; what would he look like if Wash literally poked at his oversensitivity kink on all fronts? God, he could suck Tucker down, he could finger him until he begs, he could thumb Tucker's nipples and listen to his voice break as he comes apart- “Absolutely right now, we should do that, we can get started immediately.”

Something about Washington's eagerness flips a switch and Tucker grins at him then, like a shark circling a diver, like a bobcat going in for the kill, ass-wiggle and everything. “Yes _sir._ ”

Wash whimpers. _Shameful._

 

* * *

 

“How fucking long does this take?! God.”

“Ask me again and it's _never_ happening,” Wash tells him, sounding a lot more calm than he feels with two fingers stretching Tucker out with what is admittedly a good deal of caution. He just wants to be careful, considering by Tucker's own admission he's never had anything up his ass. He's taking to two fingers remarkably well but Wash can hear the note of bravado in his voice, too. He wants to prove something. Wash should find out what that is before he actually gets in there. “Trust me, you'll thank me later.”

“Are you trying to say I don't want it rough? Wash, I'll have you know I have a natural affinity for any and all love-making, so if you wanna fuck my ass raw I can totally take it dude.” There it is again. “Fuckin' shove me down and _take_ me, fuckin' do it!”

Wash scowls, hand stilling and Tucker groans in frustration, throwing his arm over his eyes. There's definitely something up. “...why are you doing that?”

“Doing _what?_ Trying to get laid? I don't know Wash, maybe because I'm fucking horny!”

“Trying to provoke me.” Granted, Wash isn't entirely unaffected by that _shove me down and take me_ but he's not an _animal,_ and that's not Tucker's actual 'shove me down and take me' voice. At least, he doesn't think it is. “Do you think this isn't going to happen, or...”

“God, do we have to talk right now? Your fingers are up my ass.”

Wash twitches them. “I can take them out.”

“ _No._ God damn it.” Tucker heaves a sigh, arm still over his eyes before he moves it to glare up at the ceiling. “I'm just- psyching myself up. Okay? I'm just fuckin' pumping myself up for this.”

Wash feels a little off-kilter as he allows that to sink in. He feels moreso when he finally understands, and now he _definitely_ wants to pull out. “You're not actually ready for this.”

“That's _not_ -” Tucker lunges, grabs for Wash when he backs off and snags his upper arm, gripping almost tight enough to bruise. “Don't you dare, asshole! I fuckin' told you not to go!”

“I don't want to force you into anything that you're not ready for,” Washington says stiffly. He'd known about this, of course; Tucker had apparently been much worse back in the canyon, and the behavior had petered out as the years passed so Wash assumed he'd just had an idea put in his head that he eventually got over. Considering how invested he was in Grif and Simmons's relationship, Wash didn't think Tucker was bigoted or anything like that.

But maybe it's different.

“Don't,” Tucker says again, lowly. “I don't- I don't want you to go. I wanna try this out.” Tucker huffs through his nose, brows down and straight over his eyes as he stares at Wash, determined. “I wanna do it. I don't wanna- it's just stupid, all right, I just want that gone and I wanna try it with- with you.”

Wash bites the inside of his lips. Does he want to do this with Tucker? “You'll tell me,” he says warningly, still not sure but, like Tucker, willing to try. “If you can't handle it, you'll tell me? I don't want to be inside you and see you freaking out, got it?”

Tucker nods, finally letting go and relaxing back onto the bed. “Yeah, dude. Conditions accepted, let's move on. You gonna make me scream the walls down or what?”

God, Wash hopes so.

 

* * *

 

“Nnngh god _damn_ Wash, that's a lot in there.” Tucker hisses, expression scrunched up but eyes still bright with curiosity. Wash had found the best angle for Tucker's prostate and he nearly _had_ shouted the walls down, so after a lot more teasing and prep than Tucker was used to, Wash eventually slid inside. It was met with mixed reactions. “It kind of...burns? Sort of? But not totally bad. Ahh _fuck,_ dude, your cock is totally inside me, holy shit.”

“You'd better not be freaking out,” Wash warns, though his self-control is being _seriously_ tested by Tucker fidgeting and shifting his weight and _Jesus Christ_ squeezing down on his dick like a vice. He hasn't been inside anybody in a long time and he'd forgotten how _insane_ it is, like he's being sucked in, like everything he could possibly think has been narrowed down to what he's feeling with his dick, just a thin slip of rubber between himself and Tucker's walls clamping down because he doesn't know enough to relax more.

“I'm not, I'm not I'm- I mean I am but not about that.” Tucker sucks in a breath, holds it, lets it out. His thighs are tight against Wash's waist in a way that might make Wash actually cry, it's so good. “Christ. Ohhh man, I dunno how else to say it. _Your dick is in me._ ”

“Sure is.” Okay, okay. He's fine, he's all right. “You know, you're bigger than I am so I don't know what you're complaining about.”

“I'm not complaining,” Tucker protests.

“Why don't you jerk yourself off? It might help.” Tucker doesn't meet his eyes and Wash's heart swells because they just had it, just now, some wordless communication and it's _wonderful_. “You want to feel this first.”

“Well, I mean. We had a deal and all.”

Wash leans down to kiss Tucker and the shift makes them both suck in air against each other's lips. Kissing works out well; they both enjoy it, Wash loves Tucker's mouth (everything, even the bad stuff like the backtalk and the cutting commentary) and Tucker loves sliding his hand up the back of Wash's neck, over his implants and into his hair.

And that's what they're doing when they begin to move. Wash can't remember later who started moving first, just that somewhere between Tucker's tongue licking into his mouth and Wash pulling on Tucker's lip with his teeth they started moving together, Tucker rolling his hips up as Wash rolled his down, meeting in the middle with a press of hot flesh and shared moans and gasps. It's not fast or hard at first; Wash absolutely wants to leave Tucker with the best memories of this he can, for more than one reason, and going at it like a marathon porn star would probably be in poor taste for somebody's first ass-pounding.

Tucker shifts his legs at some point and hooks his ankles behind Wash's ass, which is so sweet, so perfect in how it tangles them closer together. His skin is so _hot_ and unreasonably smooth considering their profession and that they're in fucking kevlar all goddamn day. He really must work hard at that 'being hot' business, like body creams or something, maybe he gets them through Donut. Donut seems to be some kind of black market dealer for facial scrubs and nobody knows where he gets them from.

“Wash,” Tucker whispers, tone reverent and Wash breaks and falls apart and builds himself back up again on the foundation of that tremble in Tucker's voice. “Ohh fuck, okay, yeah...” He slides a hand over Wash's shoulder, drapes his arm there like he can't hold it up any more, like he wants to sink into Wash's skin, his muscles, his bones. “Yeah, this is good, this- Mmmh, _yes,_ yeah, shit.”

“Oh god.” Wash wants to touch all of Tucker, every part of him. He slides a hand between them over Tucker's collarbone, his chest, across his nipples until Tucker jerks and makes them both groan. He rubs his thumb over scars and the swells of muscles being built and along the dip of his navel. The sound Tucker makes when he drags the flat of his palm across the wet head of Tucker's dick is unreal, all gasping need and clenched teeth and curling toes. “Tucker, god, you're so-” He can't say it. He feels twenty years old again.

“I'm hot, right?” Tucker grins up at him, eyes heavy-lidded and breath huffing between them as Wash goes a little harder. “Fuck yeah, look at you. You fuckin' wanna eat me up, huh?”

“ _God,_ ” Wash agonizes, leaning down to kiss Tucker quiet.

When Tucker's fingers curl blunt nails against his back Wash knows he found the right angle. “Wash, Wash,” Tucker hums, clutching tight to Wash, hair fanned out and spilling over the pillow, over the bed, over Wash's hand when he buries it in there and pulls a little because Tucker seems to like that sort of thing and he _does,_ god damn does he ever. Tucker's head goes back and he starts making more noise, voice punched out of him every time Wash thrusts back in, gasped out as he goes harder and harder, “Wash, _fuck me,_ you're really fucking me, that's so fucking _hot_ that's so fucking good dude, shit, fuck, _shit,_ ” and Tucker goes tight around Wash's waist, his shoulders, his dick, all of him contracting and spasming around him, nails digging into his back as he comes hot and hard between them, voice jerking as Wash keeps pounding, can't keep his head on straight because Tucker is fucking _whimpering_ as he keeps going, drawing his clawed fingers down Wash's back, “Oh baby baby _baby,_ fuck me keep going, shit, keep going 'til you come, Wash, god you're right there it's so _good_ it's too much, fuck, _fuck,_ ” and then Wash is whiting out and it's perfect, it's the end, it's Tucker shaking, wrapped around him and making indents in his skin and his head and his heart.

 

* * *

 

Grif and Simmons are suspiciously absent to breakfast at least four times a week.

“Goddamn. Who knew someone as fat as Grif could fuck so much?” Tucker marvels, staring at their empty spaces.

“Hey, how come Sarge is never here in the morning?” Wash wonders aloud, reaching over to spear Tucker's cantaloupe when he pushes it forward. “I never see him here for breakfast.”

Tucker's grin is wicked. “Dude. He eats breakfast with _Dr. Grey._ ”

Half the mess hall turns around at Wash's shrieking, “ _What?!”_

 

* * *

 

“Then my cat died, and my mother didn't even call me to tell me for two weeks because she _claimed_ she forgot.”

“What?” Tucker's hand keeps making circuits around Wash's side and chest, up through the fine hairs and over across his nipples and back down to his belly, under his navel, over his hip bones and then back up. It's making him feel like liquid, like melted gelatin, pliable and soft and ready to conform to whatever shape Tucker wants to be. It's awesome and Tucker likely has no idea that he's doing it. “Dude that's such bullshit. She should've called your ass that _night,_ I don't give a fuck if you were getting laid or meeting the president or what. You're supposed to get a call when your cat dies.”

“ _Thank_ you, that's what I said.” Wash marvels at this, at the ease with which he's talking about his life, his past. He can't do this when he's in armor, when he's outside of this room, this bed, Tucker's immediate presence. He's sure if he tried to do this in the mess hall or out in the field he'd choke on the words but in here, it's all right to talk about these things. Tucker rewards him with casual touch that could almost put him to sleep, if he did more of that. He's more relaxed lately at least. Tucker says it's the regular boning; Wash thinks it's a little more than that, but doesn't want to bring it up to Tucker for fear that it'll make him self-conscious.

“I had a pet. I had an iguana named Godzilla.”

Wash smiles up at the ceiling, arm beneath Tucker's head bending at the elbow to drag his fingertips over his scalp. “That's so incredibly unsurprising.”

“Huh, now that I think about it, that was totally practice for Junior. Shit! I should've named _him_ Godzilla. Maybe I can get away with saying it's his middle name. There was never a birth certificate, they can't prove it's not, right?”

“I'm pretty sure they can.”

 

* * *

 

Wash brings Tucker with him the next time he sits in on Carolina's training session with Caboose and Tucker spends half of it throwing his hands in the air. “Why the fuck couldn't he do this before?! God damn it! We could've kicked the Reds' asses across the canyon and back like a jillion times!”

“Maybe he didn't have the right teacher,” Wash points out. He shoves his knuckles against his mouth to hide the smile when Carolina coaxes Caboose into cooling down with some push-ups and promptly sits on his back, pulling out a tablet to read as he pushes up and down, up-down.

Tucker is quiet for a suspiciously long time, watching the proceedings with a pensive expression.

“What?”

He shrugs, hands in the pockets of his camos. “Nothing.”

It's something. Wash doesn't ask any more about it. He thinks he feels it too.

 

* * *

 

“Hey Tucker. Why don't you shove me against the wall anymore?”

Tucker rolls over. “Dude, like...the first time I did it you said you could put a knife in me easy. I've had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

Washington pales. “Oh shit. Tucker, I'm sorry, I didn't even think about it.”

“It was kind of creepy,” Tucker admits, pushing himself up onto an elbow. “But like, y'know. It's fine. I'm over it.”

If he was over it, he'd shove Washington against a wall. Wash is man enough to admit that he desperately wants to be shoved against a wall again, and he'd also really like Tucker to not be afraid of him because things that terrify relatively undamaged people don't even register on his radar anymore. “I'm sorry.”

Tucker waves a hand.

“We could work on it?”

Uh oh. Tucker has that look on his face. “Ohhhh dude. You wanna get wall-banged. Shit, you totally do. Shit, that's hot.” He rolls onto Washington and kicks their blankets aside. “Let's fuck.”

“That's not what I was going for and we just _did,_ Tucker, Christ. Let me at least take a nap first.”

 

* * *

 

“I forgive you, y'know,” Donut says suddenly.

All Wash wanted to do was get this Warthog in working order. Lopez was off taking care of something else so Donut was on repair duty, and he needed someone to hand him tools and Wash knew what most of them were called so he'd volunteered, _fifteen minutes and I'll have it done,_ Donut had promised. He didn't sign up for this shit. “Oh,” he says awkwardly, and passes over a socket wrench.

“Just wanted to make sure you knew! In case you were still blaming yourself.”

He was. He probably always will. “Well- thank you. I-” Don't deserve it. “I appreciate it.”

“You are _so_ bad at this,” Donut muses, and Wash does not engage. They both know what he's talking about anyway.

 

* * *

 

“Oh...oh god, yeah, right there, oh...”

“There is no fuckin' way dude, that you don't know what you look like...dude, seriously.”

“H-huh?” Wash hisses through his teeth and arches, head pressing back against the pillow. “Ahh _fuck,_ yeah, keep going like that. That's a good angle, damn, _damn it_.”

Tucker groans and hides his face against Wash's chest. “ _Seriously_ dude!”

Wash's laugh is breathless. His everything is breathless right now. “Y-you sound like a broken record Tucker, what're you trying to say?”

“You. You're hot. You're like, mega ultra fucking sexy.” Whether or not he does it on purpose, Tucker's fingers twist in a way that cuts off whatever Wash was going to say as his mind whites out with pleasure that sparks so hot he's afraid he'll burn up from the inside out. “I've never been into dick or dudes but you, man, like, your fucking _face_ and shit, and you've got freckles fucking everywhere and it's fucking- I love it dude, seriously. You've even got freckles on your fucking dick! _Who has that?_ Did you tan naked a lot?”

“Ah,” Wash pants when he finally gets a breather; his brain is swimming in endorphins, he can't focus long enough to pick up the train of thought, everything floats around in pieces so he grabs for one and offers it in the hopes that Tucker will keep teasing him, just keep shoving him right up against that edge and pull him back, _how many kinks can one person have_ he thinks a little hysterically. “I- went skinny dipping a lot one summer.”

“Would that even do it?” Tucker looks languid and pleased, probably because Wash had sucked his dick _again_ before they started, probably also because he's rubbing up against Wash's sheets and making a mess of the bed and everyone on it. “Who were you skinny dipping with? Girlfriend, boyfriend?”

“Girl I liked. We never...actually did anything.” Which he'd gotten a ton of shit over from all his friends, who were pricks. He was not a very nice teenager and neither were his buddies, he'll admit that now. Too much anger, not enough outlets. “Keep going, don't stop. Keep going.”

“Dude, I'm gonna be able to make you scream fucking _blindfolded_ with all this practice.”

“I have not _screamed,_ ” Wash protests, feeling oddly defensive. He hasn't, right? Okay so he's gotten a little loud here and there, but screaming just isn't- “ _Ohhhh,_ ” he sighs and rolls his hips up when Tucker starts tracing circles inside of him, “fuck fuck _fuck,_ oh, Tucker-!”

The bed squeaks as Tucker starts thrusting against it. “Yeahhhh, that's so good, yeah baby.”

“D-don't call me baby.”

“Stop being so fucking hot then.”

 

* * *

 

They don't say I love you. It's like an unspoken rule. They don't say it because it's cheesy (Tucker), because they don't know if they really remember how to do it right (Wash), because saying it is like a death knell for couples in wartime (both). They don't say it at first anyway, or maybe they're saving it for picket fences and houses in good neighborhoods, or apartments downtown with two keys and one bed. They don't talk about it.

They do an awful lot of love, though. Tucker goes to Grey and learns how to help someone through a panic attack. Wash makes notes on Tucker's mission briefings, pay attention to this here, this here is important, _you're doing great, I believe in you._ They send each other messages, pictures of rocks shaped like boobs (Tucker), adorable stray kittens that somebody desperately wants to catch and keep (Wash), snapshots of Grif and Simmons holding hands when they think nobody can see (both of them, because Tucker dragged Wash down into that hell with him, the shithead).

Wash and Tucker start jogging together, then start working out together. They become a set. It's kind of annoying, because usually one will get approached by someone looking for the other, but considering they always know where the other _is_ it's not really something they can complain too much about. Well, in public. They bitch about it to each other in private all the time.

Tucker somehow finds Wash a bottle of blond hair dye and Wash gets Tucker to stop shying away when Wash wants to hold his face, cup his cheek and brush his thumb over his skin. Wash even gets him leaning into it once in a while, eyes closed, lashes long, and every time it happens it feels like something inside of him is knitting back together into something like what it's supposed to be.

 

* * *

 

“I don't know, I guess- a blowjob, I suppose.”

Tucker couldn't be less impressed. “You want a blowjob? Really. That's what you're gonna break your kink bank on?”

Washington flushes, jamming his helmet back on. “All right all right, I get it. Sorry I'm not imaginative enough.”

“I'm just saying, spice it up! C'mon, everybody likes getting their dick sucked. Gimme some dirty details, like character motivation and shit.”

There are several ways to react to that. Washington is left in the crossroads as he tries to settle on one. “That's called roleplaying.”

“Yeah, which is fucking hot. C'mon.”

“Okay. I guess, I. Well, I just...like your mouth. I guess.”

It's like chumming the waters. What a fool he is. “ _Ha!_ You fuckin' wanna see my lips all wrapped around your dick, like a dirty slut. You fucking kinky son of a bitch, _goddamn_ Agent Washington-”

“All right,” Wash says again, loudly. “That's enough. What's yours?”

“What? Psh. You know mine. I want you to get me to come at least twice, shouldn't be hard if you work at it. Might be nice also if you let me tease you 'til you fuckin' beg for it. And _you_ dude?” Tucker says as he rummages through his bedside drawer before withdrawing something. He presses it into Washington's hand with a grin and steps back. “You're gonna wear that.”

Washington holds it up. A silicon ring with some kind of release on the side, too big for fin- “OH MY GOD.” He drops it. “No.”

“Hey! Be careful, that's expensive!” Tucker scoops it off the ground and examines the latch for damage. “It's not like I can just jog over to the commissary and get nother one.”

“How did you even get _that_ one?!” Wash throws up a hand when Tucker opens his mouth. “I don't want to know. And I'm not wearing that!”

“Hey _you_ asked for my kinks, this is a kink. Besides, I'm like ninety percent sure you'd love it.”

“Why the hell would I love wearing a- a _cock ring?”_

Tucker grins again, spinning it around his pointer finger. “Because you _love_ telling yourself no.”

“Oh my god.” Wash doesn't want to look at it too closely, but his curiosity is getting the better of him. It doesn't look horrible until he thinks about that being around his dick. “It'll hurt.”

“Hurt so good.”

“ _Tucker._ ”

“Dude, no it won't. It's adjustable, you measure it like,” and he demonstrates, finger against the inside as he holds it up to his own codpiece. “And you tighten it like that so you don't end up squeezing your dick too bad.” Apparently he'd done appropriate research...or ran with crowds that knew and discussed this sort of knowledge. Washington feels a flash of appreciation that Tucker would at least investigate the safety of his toys for the comfort of his partner until he remembers that means Tucker likely discussed them having filthy kinky sex with some poor bastard. “Dude, seriously, trust me. You'll come so hard after using this thing that you'll pass out.”

“You want to make me pass out.”

“I wanna _brag_ about making you pass out, yeah.” Tucker's grin is bright and beautiful and the sleaziest thing Washington's ever seen.

“Let...let me think about it,” Washington chokes out and at least he gets to see Tucker gasp, gets to see Tucker fistpump and dance around happily, lets that bolster him because that means Tucker is at least half as into him as Wash is into Tucker.

“I've got other shit too, y'know, for the ladies but I'm pretty sure it'll be just as awesome for you. You don't have a problem with pink, right? It's all sparkly and shit, like a disco dildo.”

Washington covers his face and sighs.

 

* * *

 

Tucker descends from the Pelican with a stumble, with blood pouring from his temple and Wash is the one who takes him to the medbay. Scratch that; Wash tries to walk with him and Tucker staggers twice, so Wash hitches Tucker up onto his back and carries him the rest of the way.

“I'm okay dude, I'm okay,” Tucker mumbles the entire way there and Wash doesn't answer just grips his legs, grits his teeth, ignores Tucker's arms dangling limply over his shoulders. Even when Dr. Grey issues him a clean bill of health, bedrest and liquids and taking it easy for a couple weeks, Wash doesn't leave him alone, sits on the edge of Tucker's bed and strokes his hair as he falls asleep.

“I thought of you,” Tucker whispers before he falls asleep and Wash has to sit with his hands clenched trembling in his lap, wondering how terrible it will be if he keeps this going, ultimately deciding that it's too late anyway, he's already too far gone.

 

* * *

 

Caboose comes down with the crud that's going around Armonia and gives them all a serious scare. It's not something horrible like a hemorrhagic fever or anything but it has a fatality rate of 30% if left untreated and that's a number too high for Washington to be okay with. Dr. Grey doesn't keep him in the hospital because the beds are full and Caboose gets nervous and excitable with too much foot traffic. She sends IV bags and monitoring equipment to his room, a medic who makes rounds to everyone else home sick to check in on him and take his vitals.

Wash, Tucker and Carolina all take turns sitting with him for most of it. Epsilon doesn't say a word, but implants into Caboose for the entirety of the week and can usually be found using Caboose's nightstand to project his avatar, swinging his legs as he sits at the edge of it as he tells him stories, lines of white running down his holographic armor like ribbons.

“She's sure he doesn't need the hospital?” Tucker demands when Wash comes to relieve him of sitting duty. He's staring hard at Caboose's still face, sweat sticking his black curls to his forehead, his hand clenched tight around Freckles. “He's not getting any better.”

“It's barely been two days,” Wash says, taking the chair when Tucker gets up. “The usual runtime for this thing is a week and a half, isn't it?”

“Not that I'm complaining about the peace and quiet or anything. It's just creepy not hearing him yelling about stupid shit every fucking hour of the day,” Tucker mutters.

Wash reaches over and grabs Tucker's fingers, squeezing. “Go get some rest.”

Caboose wakes up a little after that and asks for juice. When his eyes finally focus on Wash's face his weary expression brightens, free hand slipping out from beneath the covers to rest over the top of Wash's retreating wrist. “Agent Washington,” he says hoarsely, “I'm so happy you're here with me.” He falls asleep (passes out) shortly after that, large fingers pressed against Wash's pulse point and Wash wonders how many more times his heart can take Caboose’s bald-faced sincerity before it finally gives out.

 

* * *

 

After dozens of tries, they find the perfect way to fit when they sleep. Tucker likes to have Washington's arm under him, likes to be able to half-sprawl over Wash's chest. He likes to be able to fling his limbs over Wash's side and hips, over his legs, likes to be able to tangle them up at a moment's notice. Wash is fine with all of that; his only stipulation is that he wants to feel Tucker's breath against his neck, find his heartbeat when he looks for it. There, pressed against Washington with nothing between them, Tucker sleeps solidly all through the night.

And sometimes -not always, but sometimes- Wash does too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna look at this in the morning and want to change so many things  
> W/E
> 
> thanks to everybody who stuck with me and enjoyed this fic!!!!! i will probably write a shitton of offshoot porn in this vein because i love it ok i love banter porn i love tender porn i love tuckington  
> ki l l m e

**Author's Note:**

> HOLY GOD EVERYBODY PLEASE NOTE THE BEAUTIFUL [FANART](http://strangestquiet.tumblr.com/post/140659578051/not-a-day-goes-by-that-im-not-thankful-for) THAT [strangestquiet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/strangestquiet/pseuds/strangestquiet) MADE FOR THIS FIC
> 
> oh my god _/PULLS ON FACE_ one of my favorite fanartists made fanart for my fic im cry  
>  _   
> AND AGAIN HOLY FUCSKDF  
> EVERYONE PLEASE LOOK AT [THIS FANART](http://playerprophet.tumblr.com/post/141287673106) BY [PlayerProphet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PlayerProphet/pseuds/PlayerProphet) MADE ALSO
> 
> SO MUCH CAROLINA AND CABOOSE I'VE DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN I S2G


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